Too Human
by teaholic
Summary: Follows my other pre-series Sherlock fics, but could stand alone. Sherlock finds his body can't always keep up with his mind and struggles with that limitation.
1. Chapter 1

CHPATER 1

Sherlock had returned to help with the latest case – a series of corpses found, each victim with a number carved into their back. Worryingly, they had recently found number six, but as of yet, there had been no sign of 'four' or 'five.'

The mysterious Holmes had been helping regularly on cases, occasionally disappearing for a week, and returning with a renewed vigor. Only Lestrade had begun to worry when the young man had vanished for nearly a month without a trace. With his abrupt reappearance, however, he appeared to be giving the latest case his constant undivided attention. Lestrade found himself frequently receiving texts in the middle of the night on new ideas, leads, and queries about the case.

At least he knew Holmes was devoted to finding the killer. Currently he'd take all the assistance he could get. Bodies were piling up too quickly with little to no new ideas on how to apprehend the murderer.

"Found a footprint," Anderson announced, obviously pleased with himself for finding a clue Sherlock seemed to have overlooked.

"Same size and tread pattern as the gardener, who has already been ruled out," Sherlock murmured. "Unlikely to be a coincidence."

Greg noticed though that for once, instead of seeming to purposefully pick a fight with Anderson, he kept his observations mostly to himself and continued to scour the nearby area for more clues.

The DI made his way towards Anderson's 'discovery' anyway, knowing Sherlock would be sure to share if he gathered anything else from the scene.

Several minutes later, the forensics team came to the same conclusion, realizing the footprint wasn't of any actual importance. Probably as surprised as he was Sherlock hadn't interrupted with some snide comment, Donovan abruptly asked where the Freak was.

Lestrade grimaced slightly at the name. There was no denying Sherlock Holmes was anything but ordinary, but _Freak_ seemed a little unnecessary. Still, it wasn't like Sherlock didn't give as good as he received. They'd no doubt be hearing how low Anderson's IQ was any moment now...

Where exactly had he gone? He looked back toward the the self-named consulting detective's last known location and was surprised to see him on the ground, not in the middle of one of his unusual investigations, but he appeared to have collapsed.

"Sherlock?" he picked up his pace as he hurried back to the other man.

Just as he reached the location, the younger man seemed to be regaining consciousness.

"Easy there," he cautioned as Sherlock abruptly forced himself into a sitting position.

"You alright?" He laid a restraining hand on the other man's shoulder, urging him to not get up yet.

"Just got up too fast, light headed," the man answered vaguely.

"Maybe you ought to take it easy a bit," Greg suggested, noting the even paler than usual skin tone.

"I'm fine."

"When's the last time you ate something?" the DI asked, suddenly remembering Sherlock had worked through lunch.

This actually seemed to stump the consulting-detective briefly.

"Yesterday? Day before?" He shrugged. "It blurs together, haven't slept in a couple days."

Lestrade fought the urge to roll his eyes. No wonder he was passing out, neglecting to eat or sleep for two days, especially the way Sherlock was continuously going.

"I'll call you a cab. Go home, eat something, and take a nap."

"But the work..." he protested.

"Will still be here," Greg promised. "You aren't doing anyone any good passed out in the hedges though. Now go home."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

**Found the suspect. **Greg's phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to read the latest text from Sherlock.

**Wait for backup.** He hurriedly typed back. Someone had finally managed to get the man to eat and take a rest after his fainting episode during the last case, but little seemed to have changed. If anything, he seemed to be trying _too _hard, like he had something to prove. Sherlock had an amazing talent, but seemed to have a problem admitting he was human sometimes.

Receiving no reply, he quickly readied a team to meet the consulting detective, dialing his number as he left the building.

"Come on, pick up," Lestrade murmured as the phone continued to ring. "Damn." He hung up, not bothering with a voice message. It wouldn't make a difference.

"Get a move on!" he encouraged, joining Donovan in his car and racing towards the scene.

Ӂ

The police would never get here in time. Sherlock climbed the fire escape ladder, following the path their lead suspect had traveled moments ago. Even if they were here, they wouldn't catch him. He was too clever.

Sherlock made it up just in time to see his target disappear into the hallway...

Hall of locked doors, would likely head to street level or continue up to the roof. Police would cover the street once they arrived. Roof it was. He continued climbing the stairs, reaching the top just as his quarry emerged.

The other man jumped, landing on a nearby rooftop.

Sherlock followed in pursuit, also covering the expanse and gaining on him as they approached another chasm between buildings.

Sirens blared in the distance, police hurrying to catch up.

Behind as usual. Sherlock thought, although he noted one of the group abruptly change direction, heading the same way he and the murderer had been traveling via rooftop. At least _someone_ was paying attention, he thought as he made the leap.

The other man didn't make it all the way across and neither, he realized a moment too late, would he.

Ӂ

"Don't move." The detective laid a restricting hand on him, and for once he didn't fight it.

Blinding lights and the steadily increasing wail of sirens fulled the air, every sense on high alert. Despite everything, he was still keenly aware of the excruciating pain shooting up from his ankle and through his leg. If he could just focus on something else...

Ӂ

An unknown amount of time passed before he realized his surroundings had changed. And by change, he meant different location. The lights above were still uncomfortably bright, but at least they were no longer pulsating. Alarms of a different sort could be heard, but the shrillness had mercifully toned down. The pain in his left leg had also dulled to a noticeable throbbing, annoying, but a definite improvement. That coupled with the chemically induced sluggishness he felt all pointed to one thing.

Slowly, he lifted his heavy eyelids to confirm what he already knew.

Hospital.

Damn.

The last place he wanted to be.

Abruptly a nurse with an annoyingly pitying smile walked in.

"Good to see you awake," she greeted. "I'm Catherine – just came to check your vitals and see if there's anything you need."

"I'm fine. When can I go home?"

His question apparently amused her.

"Slow down. You can leave in a day or two. You fell two stories, fractured your ankle and a couple ribs. Recovery will take some time. Honestly, you're lucky your injuries aren't any worse."

He sighed impatiently. "Is there some list of thing I have to be able to do before I can leave or something? I'd really like to go home."

This provided another irritating smirk.

"I'll be sure to let the doctor know you're awake. He'll discuss what you need to know with you. I'm sure you'll make a speedy recovery and be fine in no time."

"Of course I'll be fine," he answered automatically. "I am fine. I'm absolutely fine."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

After the most boring two days of his life, the hospital deemed him fit to go home – probably because he'd been a continuous pain in the arse hoping they'd kick him out early – but he was leaving nonetheless.

Getting in the cab had been... interesting.

Lestrade had come to visit and somehow been roped into escorting him back to his flat. As the cab neared baker Street, he had a feeling the difficult part was still to come.

Nice place, Greg thought to himself, pleased to finally find out something about the mysterious detective.

"I'll just see you in, then I'll be out of your way."

The driver stopped outside 221 and Sherlock rifled through his pockets for money while Lestrade stepped out and took the crutches for Sherlock.

Sherlock slid to the edge of the seat and stood on his good leg, taking a crutch under each arm. Now the fun. He took a couple unstable steps toward the door and let Lestrade open it for him. God, crutches were hateful. They were supposed to make one _more_ stable, but he felt anything but, thrown off balance with each attempt to move forward. Annoyingly, Lestrade seemed to have picked up on his ineptness at using crutches and took great enjoyment at watching him stumble about.

"I think you're supposed to lead with the good leg, then follow with crutches going up stairs," Greg suggested, having already saved the other man from falling backwards twice. Not exactly and auspicious start considering he'd only made it up four steps. The broken ribs weren't making thing any easier either.

He placed his foot on the next step, swung himself up, crutches following last, as Lestrade had suggested and managed to not fall backwards down the stairs. There. Progress.

Only twelve more to go.

Ӂ

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called as she carried in a tray with tea and a sandwich.

The upstairs flat was silent.

"Need to do a bit of dusting," she murmured to herself, not that there'd be much chance for a while. Sherlock hated it when she messed with his things, and he wouldn't be out for a while. If she didn't do it though, no one would.

"I brought you some tea," she called out, hoping that would interest him more than the sandwich was likely to.

She received no response.

Mrs. Hudson set down the tray briefly to straighten the rug and push in the chair. Perhaps getting around wouldn't be so difficult for him if he'd learn to pick up after himself on occasion.

Tray in hand again, she continued through the sitting room to the bedroom door that stood ajar.

Dressing gown still on over his pyjamas, Sherlock slept in a tangle of sheets and duvet.

Quietly, she set the tray on the nightstand and retreated back to the common area before she woke him.

Poor Sherlock. She couldn't imagine him cooped up inside for weeks. He could hardly manage a day. It wasn't like he was in any shape to be traipsing around the city though. Sighing, she headed back down the stairs to look for her earplugs. There was bound to be all sorts of racket when he woke up. She just hoped with a little luck she could avoid any more holes in her wall.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Mrs. Hudson answered the door to the elder Holmes brother. Undoubtably, he had a key to the building, but chose to formally let his presence be known rather than simply come traipsing in.

"Mr. Holmes," she greeted.

"Mrs. Hudson," he returned with a brief half-smile. "I thought I would check in on my brother."

The older woman nodded, a brief expression of relief showing on her features. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. He's been so quiet since the accident, not like him."

"Not like him indeed."

"Would you like a cuppa? Usually bring him one with his lunch, not that he ever eats much."

Mycroft politely declined and began to ascend the stairs as the landlady bustled off to prepare tea.

Mycroft had only visited the flat twice since Sherlock moved out, but found it looked much the same. Plenty of books, a box in the midst of being packed (or unpacked?) and an eclectic assortment of furniture new and old decorated the living quarters. Science equipment littered the kitchen table and who knew what lingered inside the cabinets or fridge. It was probably for the best Mrs. Hudson preformed more housekeeping duties than she'd admit. Still, it looked like she could use a little help. Cleaning up after Sherlock, it seemed, was a full time job.

Usually it was anyway. From the looks of things, lately he hadn't been making much mess.

"Sherlock," he called out, half expecting his brother to ignore him.

Sherlock didn't answer, but Mrs. Hudson, appearing behind him with a small tray of food, did.

"Probably asleep," she supplied. "He has been nearly every time I've come up."

Sherlock sleep? Something must be wrong, Mycroft found himself thinking. Since he was a boy, Sherlock never liked to sleep more than was absolutely necessary. Of course, that meant he could easily sleep half the day away when he finally succumbed to exhaustion, but certainly not the better part of the last week and a half.

Mrs. Hudson set out the meal and disappeared again, leaving him alone with his thoughts in the silence of the flat.

Only a few moments later, he heard a faint rustling in the bedroom, followed by a dull thud.

Startled by the noise, he got up and walked to the bedroom, entering in time to see Sherlock grimacing as he climbed up and made himself upright, again precariously balanced with his crutches.

"Mycroft." He seemed neither particularly pleased nor disturbed to see his older brother. Sherlock raised one hand to stifle a yawn and brush the too long curls out of his face. "I assume Mrs. Hudson brought food. Dinner? Or is it breakfast?"

"Lunch actually."

Unbothered, he hobbled into the sitting room and gingerly settled onto the sofa, lounging across the sofa as much as his tall frame would allow.

"Sleep well?"

He shrugged, immediately regretting doing to, every move obviously painful.

Mycroft noted the empty bottle of Ambien on the dresser next to the barely touched codeine. No wonder he was in so much pain; he obviously wasn't keeping up with his pain medicine.

"Are you due for more pain meds?" he asked, trying to be helpful.

"I don't know. What time is it?"

"Half Twelve," Mycroft answered.

This seemed to vaguely confuse his brother.

"Tuesday?"

"Thursday."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I could have some then."

Mycroft handed him the prescribed dose.

"You could hire someone to take care of things while you're recovering," he suggested. "Keep track of medicine and meals too, if you like."

"Could." He didn't appear inclined to actually act upon the advice however.

"You're out of sleeping medication."  
"Are yo offering to get me more?"

"It was supposed to be a three week suppy, Sherlock. You've gone through it in half that."

"Well what am I supposed to do? I can hardly move. Everything hurts, and I'm bored to death. Might as well sleep."

"Everything might not hurt so badly if you actually took the pain medication," Mycroft chided.

"I didn't think you'd get me more of that, have to make it last."

"Seriously, Sherlock."

"I need something stronger. It doesn't get rid of the pain. While I'm sleeping, I can't feel it and I'm not bored. It's all better that way." He sighed dejectedly. "Well it was. I've caught up on an entire month's worth of sleep. I doubt if I could get any more if I doubled the dosage."

"I'm sure you can find something to occupy yourself."

"I've been up all morning – already checked my email, started a website, and texted Lestrade so many times he's ready to kill me. I've also had three cups of tea, nearly drown trying to take a bath, and wasted an hour trying to find something to watch on telly. What's left? Is this how normal people live? It's so dull."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Funny thing about habits, good ones are often hard to instill. Bad ones you never seem to forget.

Mycroft Holmes check his phone for what he knew must be the millionth time that day. It was still on silent, hadn't suddenly decided to turn itself on to full volume. The meeting was almost over. The meeting leader – what was his name again? - seemed to be running out of things to say. Finally.

Normally he could handle a day of meetings and negotiations. Normally, he could remember all the foreign names and their terms and piece together an amicable solution for all. Today wasn't normally.

As the tele conference meeting ended, he noticed a call coming in over his mobile, something he wouldn't have been distracted by if it weren't for his obsessive need to check the bloody thing every two seconds today.

Mrs. Hudson, his brother's landlady. How had she gotten his number? And perhaps more importantly, why was it programmed into his contacts list?

Today there were too many unanswered questions.

He took advantage of the timing to leave the conference and answer the call anyway.

"It's Sherlock," she said, sounding somewhat upset. "He's got the shakes."

"The shakes?"

"Yes. You know, cotton fever. Could you get something to help him sleep? It's just the nausea and the shaking with the broken leg and ribs... he's bloody miserable and-"

How did she even know the symptoms of cotton fever? Mycroft wondered. Perhaps Sherlock had told her. Still, he needed to get back to looking up the background on his brother's landlady. In the meantime – Sherlock had obviously been using again. He was almost tempted to let him suffer through it for being so stupid in the first place. Didn't want to make matters any worse though, and any one of his ailments was plenty.

"Yes," he replied with a deep sigh. So much for going home and relaxing. "I'll get something."

Ӂ

What had he been thinking? He knew better than to reuse a cotton. He'd promised himself he'd never do it again after last time. If it weren't for his ankle , he probably would have gotten up. If it weren't for his ankle, he probably wouldn't have been so bored out of his skull that he resorted back to using coke in the first place. The ribs though, those bloody ribs were the tipping point. Moving hurt, breathing hurt, and it never stopped. Despite the broken ankle, he could have hobbled across the room to fetch a clean cotton. Removing himself from the bed just hurt too much though. Now instead, he was shaking so badly he felt like he'd shatter to pieces, breathing near impossible, and retching uselessly.

No hit of brief numbing joy was worth this, not that he could even enjoy the high through this misery.

He was sick again, turning his head over the bucket Mrs. Hudson had left by the bed, and nearly choking on his own vomit.

God, it hurt so bad.

If he could just pass out, to be put out of his misery...

Footsteps sounded, two people entering the flat. Just what he needed, Mycroft to make some smart comment. If he said anything, he'd probably kill him. Well, maybe if he could get up.

He succumbed to another fit of tremors, wishing he understood how he could be so hot and still feel so cold.

"Blankets," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Mrs. Hudson understood. She pulled up the quilts around him again, despite his asking for them off only minutes ago.

Then, he suddenly felt a needle prick, a slight sting, and everything faded to blissful darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Consciousness came in stages. First, he was aware of the warmth of the blankets piled on him in contrast to the cool air of the room. Second, the silence. There was no ticking of clocks, no voices in the other room, no dripping faucet, just silence. For a worrying moment, he thought he had gone deaf. Could that be a side effect of one of the many drugs he'd taken over the past couple weeks? He hadn't kept very good track of what he'd taken and when...

It was hard to keep any semblance of time when he had no schedule. He slept when he was tired, sometimes when he wasn't. Food came and went; sometimes he ate, most of the time he didn't. Hardly hungry – a side effect of the drugs or simply because he had hardly moved? Obviously, he wasn't burning many calories lying around.

Eventually sound returned to his consciousness.

Uneven, slow steps. Someone was attempting to sneak. Probably Mrs. Hudson coming to check on him.

He was slightly irritated she had called Mycroft, and yet he'd known she would, and he'd done nothing to stop her. Because Mycroft could help. He may not have the ability to instantly mend bones, but he could get access to pain killers and sleeping aids, anything to end the misery he was in.

Of course, that meant he knew about the drugs, the non-pharmaceutical ones. He wouldn't be pleased. He seldom was though.

Feeling returned to his limbs, not entirely good, but somewhat reassuring. He finally dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around the room for his crutches.

He found them and had positioned himself to get up just as Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

"Oh, good, you're awake. Feeling better, dear?"

Sherlock forced a half-smile. "A little." It was sad this was an improvement, but he was a million times better than he had been.

"Your brother says you have an appointment with the doctor – see how you're mending and such,"she announced. "Thought I'd let you know so you had plenty to time to get ready." She turned to leave, adding, "I'll be right up with breakfast," before she left.

Time to get ready, he snickered. With Mycroft, that probably meant suit and tie. Well, too bad for him. He didn't wear ties, and his trousers wouldn't fit over the cast. Pyjama bottoms and t-shirt it was then. He might even include the dressing gown, just to annoy him.

Ӂ

Mycroft was waiting in the back of the black jaguar as Sherlock made his way outside, having narrowly escaped death descending the stairs from his flat. He stood on his good leg, opened the door, and gingerly sat down, dragging his injured leg in and picking up the crutches.

"Thanks for the help," he muttered sarcastically.

"Thanks for taking the time to dress so nicely," Mycroft returned. "I guess lunch afterward is out of the question.

Sherlock wasn't particularly bothered. "If you asked, I'm sure Mrs. hudson would have told you I haven't been eating lunch."

"Oh, she did," the older brother countered. "Not much breakfast or supper either. Apparently you've been too busy ingesting other substances."

The remainder of the trip passed in silence, Sherlock abruptly flinging the car door open and doing his best to hurry inside as soon as the car had stopped.

With the crutches he didn't' stand much chance outrunning anyone though. Mycroft easily caught up and fell into step with his brother.

"You know, you don't have to stay home alone at the flat for the whole six to eight weeks. You could still help out on cases or even go out for a bite to eat."

Sherlock ignored him.

"I'm just saying a broken ankle is inconvenient, not the end of the world."

"Maybe if you have a desk job."

"You've never had a problem keeping busy with all those vile experiments. Jumping rooftops isn't necessary for that."

Sherlock continued walking.

"I just don't want you to ruin everything you've worked for."

"When have you cared?" Sherlock shot back, once again attempting to leave his brother's side. He was not in the mood for a lecture on wasted talents and the detriments of drug use. It wasn't like Mycroft understood, he couldn't. Cases kept him busy, gave him something to focus on, and the endorphin buzz of a job well done made it worthwhile. Running around the city in his current state wasn't feasible though, and the pain made brain work difficult. Painkillers made him fuzzy, also not good for brain work. He solved crimes as an alternative to getting high. If the alternative wasn't available...

Why should Mycroft care? It wasn't his life. When did it suddenly become important, that he must know everything his brother was into? When had it become his job to keep him out of trouble?

"Always," Mycroft answered quietly, but Sherlock was already gone.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

"A walking boot and they've changed my painkillers," Sherlock relayed disinterestedly.

"That should make getting around easier, anyway," Mycroft pointed out.

"It's not enough to take on any cases though," continued to sulk.

"It will take a while," Mycroft sympathized. "You could always hire someone."

"To do my job for me?" Sherlock scoffed. "Then I'd be just like you."

Mycroft fought the urge to hit his brother for the last comment.

"Not to do _everything_. Just the parts you can't, some of the legwork. It's just an idea. You don't have to take it. You're clever when you want to be; think outside the box."

Mycroft must _really_ want him to stay off the drugs is he was complimenting him now. Hiring someone was too boring though. And where would he even find someone he could get along with? Up at odd hours, sometimes not sleeping at all... someone who could just listen without interrupting continuously, but might occasionally give useful insight. Not to mention, someone who could put up with his multitude of odd habits and apparent ineptness at social situations. Unlikely. Besides, even if he could find such a person, he'd have to disguise it under some other guise, couldn't have Mycroft thinking he'd actually listened and taken his advice.

The car pulled up outside his Baker Street flat and the younger man disembarked, this time with some semblance of grace.

Sherlock made his way up the stairs, only stumbling once, and dropped onto the sofa in the sitting room, grateful the new painkillers did more to mask the pain of his broken ribs.

Hiring someone to do his job just wasn't an option. There was a reason the police came to _him_ after all. Someone who could assist him and had some medical knowledge (and wasn't Anderson) could be useful however. He pondered the idea for a while, time ticking by at an unknown rate, not that it mattered. He had plenty of it. The idea of interviewing prospects sounded interminably dull though. Maybe he would just continue alone. It had always worked before.

He did need some more science equipment though. The current setup sprawled across the kitchen table was useful, but not extensive enough. He needed a lab. Perhaps he could find a way to access a school lab or... his thoughts trailed off briefly before a better idea struck him. Barts! There was a lab, undoubtedly better than he'd find in a local school, and better equipped to handle his work as well.

Come to think of it, he'd been wanting to continue his experiments on the properties of blood exposed to different environmental conditions. It was a hospital, surely they had some blood, better than having to use himself as a human pincushion again.

Yes. Definitely better. Didn't need another fainting episode.

Tomorrow he would make use of their lab, just had to figure out a way in. Mycroft could arrange something, or he could probably bribe someone. Or he could just act like he belonged. New guy no one knows, has limited medical knowledge and unorthodox ways of testing theories, with unlimited use of resources at all hours. What could possibly go wrong? Okay, admittedly his cover needed some work or he'd just as soon find himself escorted to Scotland Yard. But if it came to it, Mycroft could always handle any charges, not like he hadn't made them go away before.

Ӂ

"Oh," the young brunette startled as she walked back into the lab. "I didn't know you – anyone – would be in here," she stammered. She seemed to look around as if making sure she hadn't accidentally walked into the wrong room.

The man across the room continued to stare intently through the microscope, making tiny adjustments. Maybe he hadn't heard her?

"I need another microscope slide," he announced.

"In the drawer to your left," she answered without thought.

The man sat motionless for a full minute before finally reaching for the slides. It was a slight reach, but not enough he need to get up, yet Molly noticed a slightly pained expression cross his face as he did so.

"Sorry, I should've gotten them for you," she blurted out. He really was much closer, but she wasn't trying to cause him any pain or difficulty. At first glance, he seemed fine, nothing to hint at whatever physical pain he had, but with that big coat he could be hiding any of a myriad of injuries. "I didn't know you... anyway.. I could have gotten them. Sorry for rambling. I'm Molly."

"It's fine," the man murmured like he didn't completely agree with the words he'd uttered out of his own mouth.

After another moment of fiddling, he got up from his eat, gathered a couple small items and made to leave. Just before he left, a book laying out caught his eye, a smirk tugging at his lips. I'd like to borrow this book.. er, Molly."

"Uh, sure," she agreed.

He gave a slight nod and tucked the book under his arm. "The name's Sherlock Holmes. Afternoon," then he disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Case solved. Sort of. With minimal more help from Sherlock, Scotland Yard had finally managed to track down the 'serial' killer's accomplice. It was really more of a consolation price considering their true target had broken his neck falling from the rooftop though.

Sherlock's ankle was mended, Nearly. Technically it was – the doctor had taken off the cast and suggested physical therapy, advice which Sherlock had ignored, but he was free to do as he liked again. The range of motion and strength in the injured limb wasn't what it was pre-accident, but he would manage. In the meantime, Sherlock found himself spending more and more time in the morgue at St. Barts. The lab met his needs, and surprisingly he had yet to be arrested for trespassing. Molly loaned him whatever he asked for, and even turned a blind eye to his experiments. Usually. Not too fond of beating corpses with riding crops apparently, but she hadn't forced him to stop either.

He had everything he needed. Everything was good. Almost too good, he thought to himself as he pondered the idea of walking across the room to put the kettle on.

Can't be bothered.

He needed a case. Something real. Something challenging, interesting. He needed someone to chase thorough the streets of London – something to stave off the boredom or mundane sleeping and eating and making tea.

Giving up on the idea of Mrs. Hudson bringing up dinner, Sherlock trudged back to his bedroom and flopped onto the bed without bothering to remove his dressing gown or change into pyjamas.

With nothing to think about, sleep found him easily, and it wasn't until three hours later when he woke he realized he had even fallen alseep at all.

His phone vibrated in his dressing gown pocket, startling him awake, followed by another impatient buzz.

Two new messages from Gavin Lestrade.

**Recovered yet? **

**Got a case right up your street.**

A smile crept across his face. The game is on.

The phone buzzed once more before he was able to reply.

**Did you ever change my name in your contacts list? It's Greg. Not Gavin.**


End file.
